no idea if you’re still taking fic requests (and absolutely no worries if not!! thank you for your banger writing as is) but if you perhaps are.
I keep reading your lando pussy curse free use thing and drooling it’s everything and I’d love to see that universe explored a bit more? it’d be nice to see what george does in those workout leggings or how oscar gets passed around… or one of the drivers who didn’t get brought up in the og fic even!
anyway keep up the great work your writing is enchanting
in the same verse as this piece <3
It's a matter of convenience, when George wakes up with the curse, to slide into the tightest workout leggings he owns. Without his dick to fill them, underwear just feel strange, so obviously he has to forgo those. It just makes sense. Some people find the loosest things in their closet to hide in. George prefers having everything locked in tight. Sue him.
If it were up to him—and he would never admit it out loud—he would skip over everyone else and head straight to Williams every time he's like this. It's fine, sure, messing about with whoever he happens upon on the way. Fine to have to waddle through the paddock, with an arsecrack full of leggings, and slip into Alex's driver room to wrap it all up. But really. If it were up to George, he'd go to Alex, and he'd let Alex fuck him all morning until they both fall asleep and George wakes up normal again.
Unfortunately, it rarely is up to George. Or fortunately, depending on how you look at it.
Lewis catches him out on his stealthy attempt to navigate the paddock. Lewis says, "I think I have a pair of those," gesturing vaguely at George's leggings, and George lets himself be guided into a Ferrari hospitality toilet. Lewis is always good about it. They've only really fucked about it once; mostly, Lewis likes rubbing his big hand against George's fresh pussy through a layer of fabric. Likes grinding the heel of his palm against him until his thighs are shaking, until he can hear the wet of himself soaking through the lycra. Lewis always makes him come, which is nice. Not everyone is so kind.
Relatedly; it's Max who catches him next. It's George's fault, really, for spotting Lando and dodging mindlessly out of the way; George, personally, gets a bit shy about seeing anyone else who's been cursed recently. He's always a little embarrassed, especially, about the way Alex uses Lando's cunt like a messenger pigeon every time. This is beside the point. The point is that George slips down what he thinks is a deserted alley of the paddock, runs directly into Max Verstappen, and ends up bent over right there with his leggings yanked down around his thighs.
Max doesn't speak to him when they do this. Which is fine by George, but it is annoying that there's no perfunctory oh, shall I wear a condom? Would you rather I don't nut inside of you and make a damn mess of the place? Annoying, but unsurprising. Once Max is done, even, he doesn't speak. Just pulls out, yanks up his ugly khakis, and grunts what could be something in the same solar system as a thank-you.
Whatever.
It's a bit easier after that. Williams isn't all that far, and even though George is squelching with every step he manages to avoid everyone else on his way. He dodges Isack—George is sure he's lovely, but he's not looking to find out today—and Franco—who Lando had talked up with great enthusiasm but again, not today—and then finds himself sneaking through Williams' hospitality without any further incident. Even Carlos doesn't catch him this time.
"I thought someone with wet socks was coming to try to assassinate me," Alex says, the second George shuts the door behind him.
"Do shut up," George says, and lets Alex manhandle him onto his back on the couch.
Alex spends a while doing what Lewis does; rubbing George through his pants, working him up until the wet squelching between his thighs is truly embarrassing. He doesn't get his dick out for a long while, which is always a bit annoying, because George does want it. But it's fine, Alex climbing up between George's legs, hitching his hips down in a parody of fucking. It's gratifying how hard Alex gets. The rigid line of him grinding into George's pussy, pushing the lycra up and in until George might as well be flossing with it.
Eventually, after George has startled himself by coming before Alex even has him bared, Alex sits back. His pupils are blown and his hair is hanging over his forehead, heavy with sweat. He's panting, needy, cupping George's cunt like a stressball.
George says, "Well—" at the same time that Alex says, "Oh, fuck it."
Alex gets both hands between George's legs, crooks his fingers into the seam of the leggings, and pulls.
George makes a noise, furiously turned on. These are some of his favourite pants, he doesn't say. Come to think of it, they're also some of Alex's favourites.
Now, George's pussy is bared to the cold of the room, so wet he shivers the second he's exposed. He means to squirm away but Alex is shoving two fingers inside of him, fucking into him in a weird way that George doesn't understand; his fingers are curled, knuckles dragging against George's insides, but not in a way that is designed to make George feel good.
"Are you—"
Alex pulls his hand away, flicks his wrist. What's left of Max's come splatters the floor.
"I'm not even going to ask," Alex says. It's for the better, probably.
In the next second, Alex's joggers are shoved down, and his cock is out, and George is never so desperately wanting as when he's like this. When he has a cunt for fucking, and Alex's cock is thick and hot and bobbing between them. It feels so right that George should be ashamed of it.
The shame, if there ever was any, escapes him the second Alex fits against him and plunges inside.
George is still so wet that it sounds sloppy when Alex fucks him. Sloppy at first and then sloppier, after Alex comes for the first time. Sloppier still when Alex pulls out, slumping over George's body and pushing his fingers back inside, the pad of his thumb rubbing over and over and over George's clit until all George can do is claw at the back of Alex's head. He's not like this often enough to know if Alex is actually good at this, or if it's just because it's him doing it.
Alex, eventually, gets it up again. He pulls the hole in the crotch of George's leggings even wider, the tight rip of fabric tearing, George's whole body tingling with need or want or something worse. This time Alex fucks him slow, bent right over him so they can kiss, which is something they only do when either of them are like this.
When Alex comes again, it's George who locks his ankles around Alex's hips. It's George who clings to him, holds him close so he won't pull out. He just wants to feel it. The pulse and throb of it, Alex's cock softening slow, slipping out on its own, dribbling a trail of come after it that trickles down between George's arsecheeks and soaks into what's left of the leggings. Alex doesn't seem to mind. He's sleepy, sated. Rubbing his face against George's neck and making some joke that George doesn't catch because he's too busy grinding his clit up against Alex's pelvis until he can make himself come again. He mourns the loss of fullness when he squeezes Alex out with the force of it, but he can't mind so much.
It's another reason that George always bee-lines to Williams when this happens; Alex lets him stay there, clumsily sitting up to pull the shreds of George's leggings off of him, fetching him a pair of gym shorts that George absolutely isn't going to put on until he changes back and cleans up. He makes another joke that George ignores in favour of rolling over to take a nap, waiting for Alex to spoon up behind him before he closes his eyes.
